Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  Which store items are prisoners assembling to make syringes with? A hollow watch-band pin from a Sentry Action Watch ($2.35) sandpapered into a point. A Bic pen refill (25 cents) used as a plunger. A spray tube from Just So Curl Activator ($1.55) fitted with the point and plunger to complete the outfit.

  These DIY syringes are larger than the monstrous contraption that gave Uma Thurman’s character a life-saving adrenalin shot in Pulp Fiction. Prisoners harpooning themselves suffer considerable blood leakage. A prisoner clutching a blood-soaked arm said (allegedly), ‘I don’t know if I’m high from the dope or the blood loss.’

  He reads it and we rush to Two Tonys’ cell.

  ‘Englandman never used real names,’ Frankie says, handing the blog to Two Tonys.

  Sitting on the bottom bunk, Two Tonys appears lost in thought, as he reads the printout. ‘He wouldn’t use real names. The Brit’s an intelligent motherfucker and no snitch. The problem is Hammer’s one of the biggest dealers and the dope fiends will do anything for him.’ His eyes – just like Frankie’s – communicate the gravity of the situation. I wonder if Two Tonys and Frankie discussed this before Frankie found me. Although I feel my mistake has let them down, I’m reassured by their resolve to protect me. But with 200 prisoners on the yard, I wonder how far even their help can go to protecting me. ‘Listen, me and a few others who’ve got your back, like Frankie here, are gonna make this go away. Don’t walk the yard alone for the next few days.’

  With the terror of having a target on my head, I rush to my cell, my heart beating so forcefully it feels as if the left side of my body is expanding. I lock the door. With no fresh air coming in, the cell boils. Unable to read, I lie on the bunk, bracing for mayhem. Expecting enemies to appear at the door, I watch the window. As if my bad energy is keeping people at bay, I get no visitors. A strange quiet occurs. Hours later, with no threat manifesting and my skin’s itchiness approaching the point where I’m going to have trouble sleeping, I chance sneaking out for a shower. I stride along the balcony, enter a cubicle and close the door. Alert, I wash in record time. Feeling overexposed to danger, I barely towel dry. I peep around the door to scan the yard, then emerge. Heading back to the cell along the balcony, I spot four figures hastening towards my building: Bud, Ken, his cellmate Cannonball, and a big hillbilly. With my adrenalin pumping, I jog as fast as my shower sandals will allow, bumping into prisoners, almost tripping on the wonky wooden floor. They see me and speed up. While they stomp up the balcony stairs, I rush into my cell and slam the door. Seconds later, I’m staring at them through the Plexiglas.

  ‘Open your door. We need to talk to you,’ Ken says.

  Shoving the words out through my constricted throat, I ask, ‘About what?’

  ‘We just need to talk to you,’ Ken says.

  ‘I don’t know what you heard, but I’ve not put any real names on the internet.’

  ‘Come on, open your door, England,’ Bud says.

  Ken yells to prisoners across the yard, instructing them to have a guard in the control room electronically open my door because I need a shower. My fear intensifies. Energy erupts throughout my body. I slam my side against the door and lean with all of my might. The guard hits a switch. As the mechanism grinds to unlock the door, my heart hits my chest with the force of a karate punch. They push the door. Visualising them storming in and beating me down, I strain to keep it closed, my entire body ablaze with nervous energy. The instant the door unlocks, I heave against it. The slight jolt from the force of my push automatically locks it – click. I can’t believe my luck. I stop shoving so hard but keep my ears attuned to the mechanism in case it grinds and I have to increase my force.

  Ken punches the Plexiglas. ‘We’re gonna fuck you up, England!’

  ‘You fucked up with your blog now, 007,’ Bud says.

  ‘You won’t be able to write by the time we’re finished with you!’

  Stuck to the door by my own sweat, I watch them walk away until they’re out of sight.

  Convinced I’ll be attacked when the doors open in the morning, I get on the bunk and shut my eyes. I have to rest on my right side, with my body parallel to the wall, as when I’m flat on my stomach or even slightly pressed down towards my left, the rapid movement of my heart feels as if a rodent is trying to burrow from my body. I stray on the edge of sleep, my mind projecting violent scenarios. My fingers, crooked with tension, claw the mattress, as if trying to dig a way out of the situation. To escape from the nightmarish images, I eventually open my eyes, but the threat is still so palpable, the walls seem to press in on me.

  50

  Ordinarily, I view the several-hour wait in an outdoor holding cage at Medical as a waste of time, but getting called to see Dr Owen this morning is a relief. I’m off the yard and away from harm but dreading going back. Wearing a baseball cap and shades, I’m sitting on the edge of a ledge crammed with inmates, sweat stains expanding in the armpit and stomach regions of my T-shirt, listening to a discussion about the difficulties of getting the prison to treat hepatitis C – so many are infected that prescribing them all interferon would bankrupt the prison, so it’s much cheaper to let them die.

  When I’m finally called indoors, Dr Owen reads my homework: a journal of anxious/abnormal thoughts, including grief over my grandmother’s death, which my parents disclosed on our last call, paranoia in the chow hall and how I jumped when F-16s, jet-fighter aircraft, took me by surprise, roaring overhead so low and loudly I felt a shockwave through my body and feared a bomb was being dropped. Staring at Dr Owen, I worry my body language is betraying something is wrong. I can’t mention the green light issued by Hammer, as that would be snitching and I’d lose the support of my friends. I hope he thinks that my anxiety is due to what I wrote in my journal.

  ‘The grief and guilt over your grandmother are perfectly normal,’ Dr Owen says, putting the journal down. ‘Her death is reality. But your hyper-vigilance with the F-16s is something we need to work on.’

  ‘I realise how daft such thoughts are immediately after thinking them, but it all happened so fast.’

  ‘You need to breathe normally in situations to calm the cascade of chemicals. You need to be able to appreciate and evaluate reality. There are habitual criminals who are incapable of being anxious in crowds.’

  ‘Psychopaths?’

  ‘Yes. You need to desensitise yourself and regain control. If the F-16s catch you by surprise, breathe. I had the same reaction when someone dropped a bucket by me. Pay attention to visual clues instead of over-interpreting things.’

  ‘Also, I read about a bomb on a plane, the jet oil burning flesh, parts of the plane dismembering people before they fell to earth, squished,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘I’ve got a thing about planes.’

  ‘With explosions at altitude, you immediately lose consciousness. The shockwave knocks you senseless. It’s surprising how fragile the brain is. Troops in Iraq who survive roadside bombs are torn up physically and they suffer heavy trauma to the brain. When the bomb goes off, the survivors know nothing other than waking up in Walter Reed Army Medical Center.’

  ‘In England, I had some head trauma. When I was twenty, I was jumped by four drunks who repeatedly kicked me and hit me in the head with an iron bar. A point came when my head felt so warm I couldn’t feel the blows. I thought, “This is what dying feels like.” There was absolutely nothing I could do. I passed out and woke up with pieces of teeth missing.’

  ‘Have you suffered any other head trauma?’

  ‘A speaker fell on my head from a third-floor window.’

  ‘Did it knock you out?’

  ‘No, the wood broke in half.’

  ‘The break probably dissipated the force.’

  ‘I’ve been in about six car crashes. In one, the car knocked down a brick wall, bounced along an icy road and ended up stuck in a tree at an angle. I’ve also had multiple airbags smash me in the face.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be too concerned about those incidents. Y
ou’re not showing any signs of the subtle problems one would expect. We should be more concerned with your anxious thoughts.’

  ‘I remember anxious thoughts keeping me awake as a child. I couldn’t stop them. It was usually when I was in trouble with my parents. Do I need to learn to accept anxious thoughts?’

  ‘No. Learn to look at them: yes. Learn to build them up: no. In a dark room, the presence of objects may seem dangerous, but when you turn the light on you see the safety of chairs, lamps and small shelves. The eight-foot ogre is suddenly a small spider. When you perceive reality, breathe and push back the fear response. Comfort yourself, as if you are a little kid. Calm your system down. You need to perceive reality because, when you hit the streets, you’ll need realistic aims of who you are, what you’re doing and where you’re going. In prison, it’s realistic to be mentally prepared for fights, but you don’t have to be hyper-vigilant.’

  Why’s he bringing that up?

  ‘Just be prepared to get out of the way, if something’s going down. There’s an atmosphere you can usually pick up on when something’s going to happen. I’m sure that you can interpret that by now.’

  Disorientated from lack of sleep, I wonder if he knows I’m in trouble. Paranoid, I squirm in the plastic chair. ‘You can tell if something’s brewing. I just get out of the way and stay in my cell.’

  ‘And that’s a realistic plan.’

  How realistic is that going to be when I get back to the yard?

  ‘If you go around panicked all the time, you’ll crash. With all the people on the roads, in tonnes of steel, going 40 to 60 mph, who are just as much idiot drivers as I am, I drive defensively. Vigilant, but not hyper-vigilant. I assume the other person is going to do something. I keep my distance from the car in front of me. I check my rear-view mirror. I don’t tailgate. I do whatever I can to minimise the force of impact. That’s my realistic plan. Try to go about realistically.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, sensing the session is drawing to a close, my stomach tightening.

  ‘For homework, I’d like you to document yourself talking to yourself in relation to how you justify or criticise your past actions. And to compare and contrast what you’re thinking and feeling with your present expectations.’

  A guard escorts me to the outdoor cage. Worrying about the reception I’m going to receive on the yard, I can neither contemplate Dr Owen’s advice nor believe the crisis is about to escalate on the eve of my parents’ visit. Two hours later, a guard lets us out. Coated in sticky sweat, I trudge across the rec field, my body coiling tighter around my sickly stomach.

  51

  Spotting She-Ra and Frankie at the yard gate comforts me. Frankie says Two Tonys is still working on getting the green light squashed. Disputes have been breaking out between prisoners for and against smashing me. Frankie has let it be known he’ll start a race riot if I get smashed. I tell him about Ken and Bud trying to get into my cell.

  ‘Ken thinks he’s all that and then some, homey,’ Frankie says. ‘He ain’t shit. I’m gonna take care of his ass real good. Just wait and see.’

  She-Ra says her boyfriend has announced that anyone who attacks me will have to fight him. Since my arrival he has never lost a fight; not only that, all of his opponents were hospitalised. The last one had his face wired back together and is presently ingesting food through a straw. They offer to stay with me throughout the day, as I shouldn’t be alone.

  ‘Who the fuck’s putting our names on the internet?’ a young white prisoner yells, approaching, expanding his chest.

  ‘No one,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t fucking bullshit me,’ he says.

  She-Ra strides forward and casts a dark look that I’ve never seen. ‘You’ve got a real pretty eyeball, youngster,’ she says, her eyes serpent cold.

  For a few seconds, the young prisoner gazes, wide-eyed, petrified. Then bolts away.

  Shannon greets me at my cell, which he’s guarding in case anyone tries to steal my property.

  The cell turns into a command centre, with people visiting to express their support and opinions on the situation. Although exhausted by the length of the crisis, I feel safe surrounded by my friends, especially T-Bone, who jokes that he was supposed to become my bodyguard after I became a famous author. I have neither appetite nor desire to expose myself in the chow hall, but, not wanting to show any weakness, I attend. Other than receiving dirty looks, nothing happens as I shuffle food around on the tray. Thank God things are calming down on the eve of my parents’ visit.

  Five minutes later, a pea hits my face.

  Surprised, I swivel my head to Ken, smiling menacingly, nodding, flanked by Bud and Cannonball, jaws jutted, chewing food, gazing as if they want me dead.

  ‘Don’t think you’re off the hook, England!’ Ken yells, his black hair greased and gleaming like ink.

  ‘You shouldn’t have put anything about people doing drugs on the internet,’ Cannonball says. ‘You’ll be sorry, motherfucker.’

  With prisoners watching to see my reaction, I have no choice but to retaliate.

  The pea bounces off Ken’s chest and lands on the tray of a massive hillbilly sitting opposite with short dark hair, a broad leathery face, dark beady eyes and big pointy, gnarled ears that lend him the look of a hyena.

  Holding my breath, I brace for his response.

  With the folds of his downturned mouth stretching towards his chin, the hillbilly glowers at me. ‘Hey, pretty boy. I’m coming by your cell later on to take your ass,’ he says in country drawl.

  ‘You ain’t doing shit,’ T-Bone says.

  ‘You’re too spiritual to mess with me,’ the hillbilly snarls.

  ‘Try me,’ T-Bone replies.

  I leave the chow hall with the hillbilly yelling, ‘I’m coming to your cell later, pretty boy!’

  Outside, I keep an eye on the men in front and behind, resolved not to be taken by surprise. Sensing someone rushing after me, I turn to see Ken several feet away, his head cocked back so that his massive moustache appears to be coming at me like bull’s horns. She-Ra’s friend, Blackheart, the almost seven-foot-tall Lakota Indian, steps in Ken’s way, blocking his path.

  ‘You need to leave England alone, motherfucker!’ Blackheart yells.

  Ken tries to swerve around Blackheart, who sidesteps and stops him. Ken stands still, perplexed. I dash back to my cell and keep the door locked until friends come over.

  Nauseous with worry, I want the day to end so that I can have the first visit with my parents. From information flowing back to my cell, I learn the hillbilly is high on meth, hooch and heroin; he’s claiming he’s going to smash T-Bone and rape me while eating my commissary. Shannon offers to lurk around outside and knock on my door if any threats approach the building.

  ‘I saw him sneak over to A pod,’ T-Bone says. ‘Then he went into the library with something in a towel, so he’s got a weapon. If he comes here, I’m gonna take care of business.’

  ‘Why don’t I just keep the door locked?’ I say.

  ‘Sooner or later this guy’s gonna try to punk you out. Would you rather him try that when I’m here or not here?’

  ‘I’ll leave the door open, then.’ Having never been threatened with a shank, I bury my face in my hands and pray that T-Bone’s help prevents me from getting stabbed. Will the shank give him an advantage over T-Bone?

  Two Tonys arrives. ‘Bud and Ken are telling motherfuckers you’re putting their secrets on the internet for the guards to read. What fucking secrets? Like the guards don’t know there’s drugs in prison!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Half the time, the guards are the ones bringing the drugs in.’

  ‘What if I get what I wrote about drugs deleted off the internet?’ I ask.

  ‘That might help,’ Two Tonys says, nodding.

  ‘I’ll ask my parents to delete it when I see them tomorrow at Visitation.’

  ‘Say hello to Mom and Pops from me,’ Two Tonys says. ‘We should find out tomorrow if the green light is
squashed. I’m calling in a favour. Don’t go anywhere alone until I give you the all-clear.’

  Thirty minutes after Two Tonys leaves, Shannon knocks on the door and strides away. Panic sets in. T-Bone pushes the door open a foot and hides by the toilet. We hear low voices, people gathering below the cell. T-Bone peeps out and backs away. He tells me to be quiet, tucks himself against the wall and holds out a small mirror.

  With my heartbeat ripping up through my chest to my larynx, I climb onto the top bunk and pretend to read. A heavy-footed person approaches along the balcony. Each step adds to the maelstrom of fear battering my brain and rattling my nervous system. My eyes are latched onto the door, my hands shaking so much the book I’m holding is moving up and down. The hillbilly charges in with a shank, blind to T-Bone, who springs up from the side. I barely have time to shift before a straight left and right from T-Bone – bam-bam! – knock the hillbilly senseless. Unconscious, he collapses, as if dead. I’m speechless.

  By opening his eyelids and yelling at him to get up, T-Bone rouses him, grabs him by the back of the trousers and launches him from the cell. He hits the railing and doubles over. Disorientated, he stumbles away, as if drunk.

  Gazing at T-Bone in awe, I drop down and thank him. ‘When are you going to teach me to punch like that? It was incredible.’

  ‘The knockout punch,’ T-Bone says calmly. ‘It’s when you sit down on your punch and generate a lot of power or energy by rotating your hips in one motion. You can severely hurt someone – so don’t try it unless I’m there to teach you how to generate the pounds per square inch. He fell fast, and a lot of it came from the fact that he was shocked by me waiting for him.’ T-Bone tells me to stay put, with my door locked, then picks up the shank and exits into darkness.